


Unexpected

by IndianSummer13



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Bachelorette Party, F/M, Smut, Stripper Frank, barely a plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 16:30:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10222529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndianSummer13/pseuds/IndianSummer13
Summary: At Michaela's bachelorette party, things take an interesting turn for Laurel when she meets a certain bearded stripper...





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was borne out of an appalling Flaurel smut obsession. Obviously it's kind of AU, but I stole a couple lines from the show. Leave a comment if you enjoy x

Laurel fiddles with the thin leather strap of her watch, tightening and slacking the metal through the hole as she considers turning back, holeing up in her apartment and texting Michaela a lie about eating some questionable sushi.

But then a woman so obviously up her own ass to be anything other than the front of house appraises her jean, boot, silk shirt and leather jacket combo, correctly deems her to be part of the Pratt bachelorette party and barks, “Name?”   
“Laurel,” she says, pursing her lips to stop the spillage of ‘Fuck this’ from her mouth.  
“Laurel?”  
“Castillo,” she replies bitterly. Like there’s going to be anyone else in there with the same name.

The blonde bitch’s manicured fingernail scans her list and Laurel’s about to leave because she really, really doesn’t want to be drinking darjeeling tea leaves and eating finger sandwiches in celebration of the fact that one of her...classmates? (she’s not sure they’re friends) is going to waste her life marrying another one of her...classmates? (she’s certain that if she’s not Michaela’s friend, she’s not Asher’s either) thank you very much, but then,  
“Fourth floor. Turn right out of the elevator.”  
“Great.”  
The smile doesn’t reach her eyes. 

When she gets up there, it’s exactly as she thought it would be: a production of immaculate girls wearing pastel, trying to act like they’re happy one of their friends has got a rock the size of Everest on her finger before they have.  
“Laurel!” Michaela announces over-enthusiastically. “You made it!”  
She wishes she hadn’t. Wishes her car had blown a flat or she actually had eaten some bad sushi or...anything really that would have stopped her from making it.  
“Congratulations!”

Laurel hates herself for the word and for fraudulently returning the hug: she’s no better than the rest of them.  
“Thank you,” Michaela replies. “Come get some tea.”  
She gets the tea. But she’d prefer beer. Or something stronger.

-

You know what? They’re an hour in and she needs some God damn alcohol. But she doesn’t want to be rude or piss Michaela off - there are enough group assignments still to write that she needs to keep some semblance of a friendship (or whatever the hell their relationship is defined as) for - so she suggests champagne. 

Turns out overachievers love drinking alcohol on a Thursday night.  
“Laurel, you have the best ideas,” Michaela tells her with a pronounced slur. “What did Annalise say? It’s always the quiet ones.”  
Staying true to her label, Laurel only smiles as she tips the champagne flute towards her face. Alcohol is all well and good in dulling the shrill laughs and forced compliments but it still doesn’t make the time pass any quicker. 

Halfway through the game of ‘Who knows the bride the best?’ however, things take a more interesting turn. He’s easy to spot because the only men in the room are employees of the bar, and so Laurel can correctly determine that the man clad in an immaculately tailored three-piece suit is here for this bachelorette party. She hopes to God he’s a stripper, because if there’s anything that’ll wrap this night up, it’ll be that. Michaela Pratt, soon to be Pratt-Millstone, will not appreciate a naked man infiltrating her personal space.

She feels her heart speed up just a little in anticipation, trying to figure out what his routine will entail. It’s not like she’s ever seen a stripper arrive at a party before (except in the movies, obviously) but she’s pretty sure they’re usually fake cops or fake firemen, not dressed to resemble a lawyer. Oh. Oh. Of course. 

She gives herself an internal congratulations on figuring it out before anyone else has even clocked him, and looks up from over the edge of her flute just in time to catch his eye. He knows she’s spotted him, figured out he’s going to remove his clothes for them, but then he surprises her by raising an eyebrow, something dancing in the blue irises of his eyes. He’s got a beard, which is something Laurel has never considered to be attractive until now, as she watches him run a large hand through it, leaving stray strands poking up at odd angles which - if anything - just makes him look even more attractive.

She’s shocked - and a little appalled at herself - but more than anything, she’s excited. And then comes the question of who booked...ordered...secured? his services. Because it wasn’t her. And she doubts it would be any one of these girls in here. It certainly wouldn’t be Michaela. Which leaves one of Asher’s friends. Connor, she surmises, because who else could it be? As far as she knows, Asher has only the other members of the Keating five to form his ‘buds’, and she’s a hundred percent certain this isn’t something Wes would do. Rebecca, maybe, but not Wes.  
“Show’s about to start, Wallflower,” he says, voice coated with a thick Philly accent that shouldn’t make her insides coil but does, the timbre of it just perfect to elicit tingles all the way along her ear where he’d all but ghosted his lips, and down her neck so she’s not sure what the fuck just happened. “You coming?”  
She wants to respond with something - offence, she thinks, although absolutely no part of her is offended - but her brain is struggling with anything other than blinking until it registers his chuckle, low and rough just like his voice.

Oh God. She wants the stripper. And he knows it.

-

Laurel takes an empty chair closer to the centre of the room where Michaela is seated, giggling at some of the questions that are being asked regarding the most adventurous place she’s had sex. Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, she crosses her legs, leaning back against the chair in a display of nonchalance she hopes is convincing because she can feel the stripper’s eyes on her and while she shouldn’t give a shit, she absolutely fucking does.

The suspense is starting to piss her off. He’s here, lingering at the edge of the room in her eyeline, though she’s trying not to look because she’s not that girl, but it’s a pretty hard task when his arrival is the only thing that’s stopping her bolting out of the door.

Finally though, he runs a hand through his hair and makes his way towards the circle.  
“Miss Pratt?”  
Laurel watches Michaela look up, confused. “Who are you?”  
God, she really is rude. Especially when she’s drunk. “I represent your fiance, Mr Millstone. I have some paperwork I think you’ll want to take a look at.”  
“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” Michaela shrieks. “It’s my bachelorette party! Whatever it is, it can wait.”  
“Actually,” he replies, drawing out the first couple of letters, “it can’t.”  
He opens the leather folder he’s carrying and presents Michaela with a piece of paper. Laurel can’t read what’s on it, but the shocked gasp the woman emits tells her she knows the reason he’s here.

And then, out of nowhere, like some ridiculous romantic comedy movie (without the romance part) some music starts and the guy begins unbuttoning his waistcoat to the cheers and shrieks of the other women. Michaela, who is still seated directly in front of him, looks violated, and Laurel desperately wants to take a photo because the expression she’s wearing must be putting the guy off.

People can say what they like about strippers, Laurel decides, but this one is doing a damn good job of commanding the attention of everyone in the room. Every now and again, a collection of notes from his music pierces his act and makes it through to Laurel’s senses, and she’s barely aware of her own name, let alone the grip she’s got on the champagne flute.

Something shifts in the air once he removes his shirt. It’s as though the ripples in his muscles send a pulse to her that lands directly between her legs, and as she shifts in what she thinks is a far from obvious manner, he catches her movements - of course he fucking does - and there’s this grin spreading across his face like he’s a damn Cheshire cat.

Laurel forces herself to look away and at Michaela, who looks to be enjoying herself a lot more than Laurel had anticipated she would. The stripper’s hands go to his belt and her face flames as the desire to have those hands on her own jean waistband sends liquid pooling at her centre. 

“Okay, okay stop!” Michaela shrieks all of a sudden, clamping her hand over her eyes. Protests sound from some of the other girls, along with shouts of “No, you just keep going baby!” until Laurel watches a self-satisfied chuckle rumble through the guy’s muscles.  
“I’ll sign it,” Michaela says, her hand still over her eyes. “Just keep your pants on.”  
Laurel’s confused. She’d assumed - apparently incorrectly - that the paper he’d shown her was merely a prop.

He doesn’t look like he’s prepared for this turn of events. There appears to be no pen in his leather case, and so somebody fishes one out of their purse - because of fucking course they’d have brought a pen with them tonight. Michaela signs with her fingers still partially covering her eyes, only now they’re splayed enough that she can see.  
“I’ll be going then,” the stripper drawls, making no effort to hurry in covering himself back up, much to Laurel’s pleasure. Nothing, she figures, can improve on his intrusion, and so she drains the final drop of alcohol before grabbing her purse. There’s enough commotion for her to slip out unnoticed, but right as she’s by the stairs, there’s a voice in her ear,  
“You leavin’ before you’ve seen everything I can do?”  
She scoffs, somehow managing to keep her features passive. “Looks like your night here’s over.”  
“Maybe it is.” Fuck, his voice is like melted sex. “But that don’t mean it can’t start somewhere else.”  
Usually, she’d just walk away. But her skin is on fire and there’s a throbbing between her legs that has zero right to be there; she really wants to run her tongue over the ripples of his muscles and yeah...screw it. She already knows he’s going to fuck her through the mattress. Might as well admit it now.  
“My place,” she instructs. “Now.”

-

Laurel’s slightly taken aback at the BMW he unlocks somehow as his fingers are tangling in her hair, holding it hard enough to pull deliciously on her neck. Their mouths are fused and Laurel isn’t sure how she’s still breathing, let alone coherent enough to identify the car’s badge. He all but slams her against the passenger door, pressing himself into her body like his life depends on it until finally, finally, he pulls away and their lungs take in their air that’s so desperately needed.  
“North Plymouth Boulevard,” she manages to instruct between ragged breaths.  
The stripper just grins and Laurel realises they don’t even know each other’s names. That fact alone serves only to make her hotter.

They don’t talk during the drive. Laurel listens to the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears and silently thanks God that she’s wearing jeans because if not, this leather seat would be soaked. She stares at his fingers - large and fat - and then she thinks about where she wants them and actually fucking whimpers a little. The noise seems to register with him, and he turns his head slightly, a smirk borne out of self-confidence written across his lips as he reads her expression.  
“I’m going to ruin sex with those prep school boys for you.”

She should really be offended. She isn’t. Not at all.

They’re the only words he says and Laurel spends the rest of the journey turning them over and over in her mind and using them as some sort of mental foreplay. 

She isn’t going to want to have sex with anyone else ever again, and she already knows it. She thinks, from the way he’s looking at her, maybe he does too.

-

It takes Laurel at least three attempts to jam her key into the lock because his mouth is doing things to her neck that are making her vision blurred and it’s pretty much taking everything she has not to turn around and let him fuck her against the door out in the hall.

Finally, though, through the fog of his kisses, she hears the lock click and suddenly they’re in. She’s barely slammed the door shut before he’s hoisted her up by her hips, settled her against his core so she can feel exactly what effect she’s having on him, and begun walking her blindly to the couch.

Nobody’s ever actually ripped Laurel’s clothes off of her before - until now. The buttons on her silk blouse ping in all different directions and she barely even notices, let alone cares that it’s pretty much $120 down the drain because his tongue is gliding from the front clasp of her bra down to her bellybutton and back up until she’s making this noise she’s never even heard escape her lips before.

Her hands fumble for his buttons, and she growls in frustration when she realises the man is wearing his shirt and waistcoat, and that means far too many buttons for her distracted mind to take care of. She’d try and rip the material apart but she doesn’t think she has it in her and so instead, manages a curt,  
“Take it off.” She tugs at the material. “All of it.” 

He smirks and she thinks it might be his trademark expression but Laurel doesn’t want his mouth hovering above her lips, wants it instead, on her. Any part of her - she’s not picky. Christ that beard turns her on.

Complying with her wishes regarding his clothing, he sheds pretty much everything in record time - impressive, Laurel thinks, considering he spends his time taking it off extra slowly.  
“Your turn,” he tells her, his nod signalling she should undo the button on her jeans but she’s not fast enough because by the time her brain has finished short-circuiting at the sound of his voice, his hands are already moving the metal button out of its hole. He brushes the skin of her stomach with his knuckles and Laurel can’t help the needy breath that leaves her mouth. He tugs - not roughly, but sharp enough that her jeans are off in a single fluid motion - and suddenly she’s lying on the couch in only her bra and thong that she’s pretty sure is soaked through by now.

They don’t say anything else. Laurel just watches his eyes which are the bluest blue but yet somehow a blazing wildfire and Christ - nobody has ever looked at her like that before. Time seems to suddenly freeze, and all that makes up Laurel’s world right now is her hammering heartbeat, her pulse in her ears and the sight of a beard she wants to scratch her thighs.

It does.

Everything starts up again so that by the time his lips have kissed their way along the inside of her thigh - stopping aching close to her centre - and his tongue is flattening out ready to swipe her clit over the material of her underwear, Laurel doesn’t know which way is up or which way is down or even if she’s breathing. 

Nudging her thong away with his nose - because that’s a thing he can do, apparently - he inhales in appreciation and Laurel isn’t sure whether she’s humiliated or high off arousal, but the jolt of pleasure that surges through her body as soon as he makes contact with her swollen lips is so intense that she actually jerks away violently.

He just chuckles and blows a steady stream of air across her flesh and fuck - even that makes her wetter. She wants to grab him by that beard of his and hold him between her legs, and she’s pretty sure it won’t even matter whether he moves his lips or not because she’ll come anyway: It’s inevitable.

And she does.

Without warning, the stripper plunges his tongue inside of her and the intrusion is so sudden that the moan she opens her mouth to let out never comes. It dies on her tongue at the same time she thinks her heart actually stops. She’s rigid for however long - minutes, hours, she’s not sure - until finally, he slides an arm underneath her as her muscles start to relax.

Her bra isn’t even off yet.

He takes care of that detail though, snapping the clasp open so the material falls away and her breasts spill from their confines, nipples taut and hungry for his mouth too. Right when she’s expecting his lips to seal her breasts, he grabs her (it can’t really be classed as being picked up when the way he adjusts her position is borderline painful) so she’s sitting up, her legs automatically wrapping around his waist so she’s pressed against him and able to feel how hard and huge he is.

Laurel can feel her own juices spilling across the inside of her thighs and she doesn’t even care anymore - just wants him to clean her up with his tongue and do it all over again. She suspects they’re going to the bedroom, except he hasn’t been in this apartment before and doesn’t know where said room actually is. Laurel’s tongue is in his mouth though, so he’s lost the ability to ask her - though she doesn’t know he ever was going to.

They reach a wall. Which wall, Laurel isn’t sure and the guy doesn’t seem to care because she’s practically riding him through his boxers until she feels the hard, smooth surface of painted plaster behind her, using it as leverage so she can force the elastic down and over his hips.

His dick springs free and her eyes zero in on the pearl of precum glistening on its tip. Jesus, she thinks, he looks like he’s leaking. Suddenly, he’s holding a foil wrapper between his fingers, like it’s just appeared there out of nowhere. Regardless, the only thing she cares about is getting him wrapped and inside of her and so she snatches the packet from his hand, rips it opens with her teeth and sheaths him, all within a matter of milliseconds.   
“Fuck,” he breathes out with a kind of half-laugh that makes the muscles in his chest ripple and his dick bob against her clit. His hands either side of her, legs propped over his thick forearms, Laurel manages to tilt her hips as he slides in, stretching her to the absolute brim in the most delicious way. 

It’s slow for the first few strokes. Almost too slow, like he’s testing the waters, seeing how much of him she can take. She’ll take it all and willingly, she thinks.  
“Faster,” is all she manages to say between gasps of breath and she’s rewarded with his hips pistoning so quickly that no other words leave her lips; it’s just a constant stream of noise, like a scream/moan combination as she holds onto him for dear life, teeth biting at the patch of skin between his shoulder and neck.

She comes hard. Harder than she’s ever come in her life, and that’s quite the achievement she figures, when she thinks about her previous orgasm at his hands. Or...you know...mouth.

After what could be minutes or hours - she doesn’t have a fucking clue any more - Laurel finally sags back against the wall, making to detangle her legs from his arms but he just shakes his head, kissing her almost brutally hard before asking,  
“Bedroom?”

She’s not sure she can take another orgasm like that. And yet, her mouth doesn’t seem to be registering what her pussy is, because,  
“First door on the left.”  
Christ, her voice doesn’t even sound like it belongs to her.

They make it to her bed somehow, where he lays her down, runs his rough hands from her collarbone down the planes of her stomach until they’re seated on her hips, and she doesn’t know why the fuck she just found that so erotic, but she did and she can feel the wetness pooling again. 

He must sense how sensitive she is because he blows a stream of air across her clit again and when she flinches, he does the same thing, but leaving the little nub alone and focusing instead on her swollen lips she already knows are shiny with her juices.

Taking a swipe with his flattened tongue, his attempt at cleaning her up is thwarted when her body decides she’s not quite wet enough, and sends a whole new rush of liquid spilling out of her. He only smirks, drawing back to look at her with an expression so sure of himself that Laurel wants to deny him.

No. That’s not true.

She doesn’t want to deny him at all.

In one swift motion, he pulls her on top of him so she sinks down, her folds enveloping him like they’re welcoming him back home. 

It doesn’t take long. He tilts her just so, creating the perfect angle to hit her g-spot and it’s not like anyone ever has before, and that’s how she knows he’s managed it: when she can’t even see because the pleasure is so blinding to the point of being damn near painful.

She comes embarrassingly quickly, but this time so does he - face coated in sweat and hair flopping forward now. He falls backwards against her mattress, bringing her with him so that she’s lying on his chest. Laurel knows she should probably move off of him but that’s easier said than done right now.  
“It’s Frank,” he breathes, chest hurtling upwards as he gasps for oxygen, “my name.”  
Laurel doesn’t give a fuck what his name is. She just wants him to stay in her apartment and never leave the space between her legs.  
“Okay.” She can barely manage the two syllables.  
He makes a noise part-way between laughing and clearing his throat. “What? I don’t get to know yours?”  
“Why? You going to call me? Take me out on a date?”  
The notion is so ridiculous that she wants to laugh but she’s not even sure how she just managed those questions.  
“Or maybe I just wanna have a name to shout out next time.”  
She scoffs, like there’s ever going to be a situation in which this could happen again.  
“You think so highly of yourself.”  
“Broke you off so you came like a dam didn’t I?”  
His lack of eloquence should offend her. Just, it really, really doesn’t.  
Laurel just taps him feebly on his shoulder, then rolls so she’s lying on her back too.  
“So?” Frank asks, turning slightly to look down at her, “You wanna share a shower?”  
She shrugs. “Only ‘cause I care about the environment.”


End file.
